‘I just want to know,’ Mrs Guthrie pleaded. ‘What would you have called her? You never told me and I want to know.’
There was silence for a while, just Mrs Guthrie sniffing and blowing her nose. Mr Guthrie must have lit a pipe because Tom could smell the smoke.
‘If I tell you,’ he said, ‘this is the last time you’ll ever ask me about it. I don’t talk about the dead.’
Mrs Guthrie must have agreed because he spoke a name. And Mrs Guthrie repeated it. His chair scraped on the kitchen tiles and his boots clomped through the passage and the back door opened and slammed shut. Tom was hidden in the shadows and watched the bulky figure of Mr Guthrie disappear down the back paddock, through the gate and to the river.
Strange how life takes you away in pieces. One mother, another mother’s baby. Someone’s father. And are they taken back or forward to someplace new? There must be more complete families in heaven than here.
Are you there Old Mother?
Can you hear my words?
Tom thinks about the baby’s cot, still there, on the back veranda. It was almost finished.
At dawn Tom moves to sit on the pew at the back of the house where he watches the sun come up, yawning, across the paddocks.
The back door opens and Tom turns his head towards it. ‘Come inside, Tom,’ Mrs Guthrie says. ‘I knew you were there,’ she says calmly, like a cold weight surrounds her. Tom sees Hannah hovering in the corner. Mrs Guthrie just stands there. She turns her head towards the front door at the sound of cars arriving.
‘Take me down the river, Mot?’ Hannah says.
Tom looks across to Mrs Guthrie as she sits down on the edge of the sofa, her face as pale as clouds and her baby a small round ball under her dress. She rests her hands across it. Tom knows that look she has. It’s the same look Mrs Cath gets. Mrs Guthrie looks at Tom and seems to nod, slightly. The priest, Marge and Ted and Biscuit’s parents, arrive at the front door.
Hannah lies in the hull of the canoe, her body flat and straight. Tears run rivers from the corners of her eyes. Tom drags his paddles through the water and there’s nothing said between them. Just those ripples hitting each of them in waves as if they were standing in the sea. Hannah goes quiet for a while. She wipes her eyes and sighs. And the tears start again. Tom rows and Old Mother flows and nature grows on around them.
‘Think you can row till dark, Mot?’
‘Sure, Hannah. Anything you want.’
It’s just gone afternoon when Tom pulls up against the fishing beach on Big Bend and tethers the canoe to the willow tree. Hannah is asleep inside the hull, her body curled towards herself and she’s rocked as the waves nudge the canoe towards the bank.
Tom dusts his hands on his pants and stretches his arms. He builds a fire on the sand with dry leaves and twigs and blows on the flame until there’s a flicker of red and a tendril of smoke rising high. When it’s crackling and snapping, and Tom feels its warmth, he collects the fishing gear from the hut.
He wedges the end of the rod into the sand and digs in the dirt for worms. A cluster, of five fat ones, spring up through the earth and Tom scoops them into an enamel cup he has for the job. He takes one worm, threads it onto the hook, and casts the line out into the water. Circles spread out from where the baited hook disappears.
Tom starts to wonder how he would feel if it were Ted that was in the ute on the road and Marge sitting in the front lounge of their house. It’s something he thinks he shouldn’t think about, yet he can’t stop imagining it. He wonders how far Harry would row before packing it in.
Clouds, that have been forming in the sky all morning, are a thick net. Bunched and grey they almost block the sun completely.
He sits on the sand, his finger resting on the line, listening. Old Mother is churned up. She’s talking, babbling and it’s a noise Tom can’t quite hear clearly. There’s a tug and a nib on the line and Tom holds on, he waits until just the right sensation radiates along the rod, and he jerks back and reels in the cod.
Hannah looks pale when she wakes. She rubs her arms against the cold, but it’s warm by the fire. Tom gives her an old army blanket from inside the hut and she wraps it around herself, sitting down beside Tom.
Tom skewers the cod with a stick he then sets between two tree forks stuck in the ground on either side of the fire. He turns the fish round and round with the smoke lashing his face. The skin on the fish crackles and darkens, juice drips hissing against the burning sticks.
‘Almost forgot,’ Hannah says. ‘Show Day today.’
Tom waves the smoke away from his face. ‘You wanna go?’
Hannah shakes her head.
Tom turns the fish.
‘How come Murray always finds you down here, Mot?’
Tom shrugs. ‘Reckons he knows where I am sometimes. Says he feels it. Like knowing when fish are biting.’
‘You ever think about where people go, Mot? You know,’ she says.
‘Murray says nothing’s ever lost but everything’s always changing.’
‘Dad says they’re gonna nab him for taking your Harley.’
‘He didn’t do it.’
‘Dad says–’ she stops herself and she’s quiet. Just picking up twigs and throwing them in the fire.
‘Your dad’s not lost,’ Tom says. ‘See, he’s still talking to you,’ Tom smiles nervously, testing her feelings.
‘You’ve got a way with words, Mot.’
Tom tests the fish with his finger and brings it back, quickly, licking it. He removes the fish and, holding it with a fork against the plate, pulls out the skewer. ‘Yep,’ he says breaking the fish up on the plate and licking his fingers. ‘And mostly it’s the wrong way,’ he says laughing.
Hannah smiles and throws a twig at him. ‘How’re your arms?’
He’s feeling confident and, despite everything that’s happened, he feels good being with Hannah. ‘Better than Harry’s,’ he says, flexing his muscles.
He can’t read Hannah’s face for a moment. She’s looking at him intently, as though something’s just occurred to her. But he puts it down to what happens with people when they lose the ones they love. There’s always that other place inside themselves that calls out. Hannah’s face melts into a tired version of her familiar smile.
‘You wish,’ she says, drawing the blanket tightly around her. ‘Wish you were my brother for real, Mot.’
Murray Black is in town for market day when Kingston takes him by the arm and leads him into the station because the Harley is still missing and Black is the only suspect. Hannah hasn’t been at school since the accident and Tom has spent every afternoon fixing Mr Caruthers’s tractor.
Ted is tinkering with parts on the workbench in the garage when Tom arrives home. ‘That’s me squared with Mr Caruthers now,’ Tom mumbles. ‘I even fixed both parts myself to save him the hassle of waiting for them to come from Adelaide.’
Ted grunts without looking up from the workbench.
Tom hears a noise outside and he turns to face the road.
‘Bloody black abos. You should all piss off,’ Tom hears someone yell from out on the street.
Ted walks towards Tom.
‘What’s going on?’ Tom asks.
‘Just you leave it well enough alone,’ Ted says. ‘Let the police take care of this.’
Tom bangs on the police station door.
‘Ah, Tom,’ Kingston says.
‘He didn’t do it. I told you it wasn’t him.’
Kingston folds his arms. ‘You know more about what happened to that bike than you’re letting on?’
‘No,’ Tom says defensively. ‘But I know Murray Black.’
Kingston laughs. ‘Come inside, Tom. I’ve got a few questions to ask you.’
‘I’ve already told you what I know.’
‘Sit down.’ Kingston
points to a chair on the opposite side of his desk. He sighs as he sits down, his chair squeaking.
‘I don’t know anything else,’ Tom says, still standing. ‘Where is he?’
‘If you don’t sit down, Tom,’ Kingston says, opening a beige-coloured folder on his desk and picking up a pencil, ‘I will call your father down here because I will have to force you.’
Tom swallows and sits down.
Kingston clears his throat. ‘You weren’t alone when you saw the accident the other night. Were you?’
Tom feels his heart heating up. ‘Um, I...’ Tom can’t think how to answer.
‘I know you weren’t alone, Tom. I’m just waiting for you to tell the truth.’
‘But, I don’t ... I mean what does this have to do with my Harley?’
Tom feels Kingston’s eyes glaring at him from across the table. He grips the handles on the chair.
‘Who was with you, Tom?’
‘No one,’ Tom stammers.
‘I know that’s not true. Someone was with you when you came into town for help.’
Tom says nothing.
‘Ray Guthrie might have lived if that person had done their duty and helped him.’
Tom’s mouth dries up.
‘Okay,’ Kingston says. He slides a pad of paper over to Tom and holds out his pencil. ‘If you can’t say his name, perhaps you can write it?’
Tom shakes his head slowly. ‘No, we, I,’ he corrects himself without looking up. ‘I saw that kangaroo and Mr Guthrie’s ute hit it and ... and I rode into town.’
Kingston stands. ‘Wait here, Tom.’
Kingston passes Tom and leaves through the door and Tom thinks about running back home. He turns in the chair, slightly, and wonders where Murray is. He can’t think what to say and can’t understand what’s going on. It’s like he’s being trapped into saying something or not saying something wrong and he can’t work out which one it is. He turns back to face the desk and Kingston returns. He places a small canvas backpack on the table and sits back down.
‘Open it,’ Kingston says, pointing at the bag.
Tom doesn’t move but he can’t think what else to do, so he leans forward and opens the flap. Something moves and Tom jumps back before his brain takes in what he saw.
Kingston laughs.
Tom opens the flap again to see a small joey cowering at the back of the bag.
‘Found this on Murray Black,’ Kingston says. ‘Came from a dead kangaroo.’ Kingston pauses. ‘You gonna own up to the truth now, Tom?’
All Tom can think about is how it feels like a ripple just ran through his body, how small the joey is. How someone has to take that joey in.
‘I want to take the joey home,’ Tom says. ‘Let me look after him and I’ll tell you.’
Kingston sits back on his chair and waves his hands towards the bag like it’s nothing. Wrapping his hands around the base of the bag, Tom drags it slowly from the desk onto his lap. He slips the straps over each arm so the joey rests against his chest. And he tells Kingston exactly what happened the night Mr Guthrie died.
‘What will they do to him?’ Tom asks Ted.
‘I don’t know, Tom. It’s not our concern. Got Mr Guthrie’s funeral tomorrow morning and that’s all there is to think about. I went to school with his oldest brother, you know,’ Ted says, as if he’s not really talking to Tom at all. ‘Makes you wonder. When something like this happens,’ he says, reaching for the bread across the table.
‘Poor Kate,’ says Marge from the other end of the table. ‘And you were coming along so well with your lessons, Tom.’
‘The joey stays with me,’ Tom says, pushing his plate away.
Ted sighs and Tom excuses himself from the table.
Apart from his fishing, Murray takes seasonal shearing jobs around the riverland and he’s always there at the Guthries’ come September. Murray knew Mr Guthrie as well as many a man around the town, maybe more than some, and yet he isn’t there as the priest prays and Mr Guthrie’s casket is lowered into the hole in the ground. The sound of Hannah crying triggers a sadness in Tom that isn’t all about Mr Guthrie. Hannah stood next to him and held his arm until Harry Caruthers and his parents showed up and she ran to stand next to him.
If Murray could have helped Mr Guthrie, then he would have. He never said a bad word against Mr Guthrie in the whole time Tom had known him. Not like some people around the town. Murmuring under the breath about what a log he could be. Cold as stone and all the rest. Not now that he’s dead, though. Everyone with tears in their eyes. Hankies in their hands. Women dabbing and sniffing and men standing strong and stiff like the weight of what they feel could preserve them that way for weeks. Even Kingston.
Mrs Guthrie is drained of colour. She could fade into the distance and never be seen again. There’s a helplessness about her as she stands, solitary. Alone with her hands resting on her stomach.
The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want.
Everyone around the grave begins to sing.
He makes me down to lie.
In pastures green; He leadeth me
The quiet waters by.
My soul He doth restore again;
And me to walk doth make
Within the paths of righteousness
Even for His own name’s sake.
Whether it is something about the singing or the sadness, or the way in which the whole town surrounds what’s left of one man’s life, Tom realises that inside Mrs Guthrie is another baby Ray Guthrie will never meet.
The priest pronounces the benediction and people walk away from the gravesite in downcast huddles. Hannah leaves with Harry and Mrs Guthrie doesn’t seem to notice what’s going on around her. Ted and Marge, Biscuit’s parents and the priest leave. Only Mrs Guthrie remains. Like a statue. Mrs Dawson from the post office puts her arm around her, but Mrs Guthrie nods politely and shakes her head and soon she’s standing there all alone. Just Tom on the other side of the grave. He doesn’t say anything, but he thinks a hundred things. Mrs Guthrie sniffs and brings a hankie up to her nose.
‘Thanks, Tom,’ she says. ‘I needed that. Just someone helping me keep the quiet. I love that hymn,’ she says quickly. ‘He loved his sheep. And that’s what he’d been doing before he...’ she sniffs again. ‘Moving those lambs.’
Tom looks down at the ground.
‘I like to think of pastures and the river there, after. Like life goes on.’
‘Tom!’ comes a voice from the other side of the cemetery and Tom looks over to see his parents waiting by the gate.
‘Sorry,’ Mrs Guthrie says, tucking her handkerchief back inside her purse.
‘That’s all right,’ Tom mumbles, ‘I better go.’
There’s a small stone plaque in the cemetery, dug into the grass, that is all that’s left of Lil. Just her name and two dates to define her life, as if her living held nothing else in between. Graves like flood maps; keeping the time.
There’s a small headstone for the Guthries’ first baby, too. One date, a line that says ‘Beloved Baby Guthrie’. No name carved in that stone.
‘I’ll look after them for you,’ Tom says. He doesn’t observe Mr Guthrie’s habit of not speaking of the dead.
‘You can name him if you like,’ Tom says to Hannah. She sits beside Tom on the grass in front of the empty lambing pen, patting the joey’s ears. Tom places the crust from the last of his sandwich on the plate between them. Behind them, up in the house, some of the women wash dishes and clear away what’s left of the food from the wake. People take it in turns sitting with Mrs Guthrie. A few of the men smoke cigarettes and pipes out on the veranda. A bottle of port – raised to Mr Guthrie’s memory – is almost empty.
‘He’s so cute.’
‘Go on,’ Tom says. ‘Give him a name.’
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Hannah takes the joey and bag from Tom and rests it on her knee.
‘You coming back to school soon?’
Hannah shrugs. ‘Depends on Mum.’
‘Everyone’s saying the river’s going to flood,’ Tom says, leaning back on his arms.
‘Doc,’ Hannah says, turning to look at Tom.
‘Doc?’
‘Mot, Doc.’
Tom smiles and picks at the grass. ‘Harry will never talk to you like I do,’ he says.
‘Jeez, Mot.’ Hannah thumps him on the arm. ‘Don’t go getting all real on me.’
Tom laughs.
‘The bet still stands, Mot. You’re gonna kiss Biscuit when I win. She likes you and with a bit of encouragement I say you’ll like her, too.’
‘You reckon it’s true? What they’re saying about the river?’
‘S’pose so. You better learn how to swim, Doc,’ she says. ‘Big River coming.’
BIG RIVER
June 1956
Ted had three cars to fix by the weekend. Tom knew he was really under pressure when Ted asked him to stay home from school and help get them finished.
‘It’s just my chest,’ Ted said. ‘Been a bit under the weather. Won’t happen again, Tom.’ Ted coughed a few times in the day when Tom was looking. Ted was busier than usual with flood work, but the truth was that Ted was getting old and slow. His joints had begun swelling with early arthritis, especially on the knuckles where he’d been hit with a hammer too many times. He looked like he needed a good oiling. His body was forgetting how to work in one, fluid self, breaking down into separate parts instead, that kept Ted concentrating for longer on simple tasks. Standing up. Stretching to the top shelf. Bending over. Walking fast. Not that he said anything or complained. And it wasn’t bad enough to stop him from doing any one particular thing. But Tom could see in his father, early signs of Old John down the river. He wondered how many cigarettes, how many packets, how many breaths it might take from one point to that other.
Big River, Little Fish Page 8